by Alyson Noel
I make my way down the trail, anxious to begin. Carefully picking my way around jutting rocks and jagged turns, heart crashing hard against my chest as my body goes clammy with sweat, aware of that feeling rising inside me and knowing I need to get started before it takes over again. Feet carving deep into the sand as I make my way toward the cave, trusting it’ll be empty, just like we left it, knowing it’s just like Damen said: People rarely see what’s in front of them. And they certainly never see this.
I drop my bag to the ground and reach for a long taper and small box of matches, the swish and sizzle of the match striking the case the only accompaniment to the gently pounding waves. Securing the burning candle into the sand, I go about the business of arranging the rest of my tools on a blanket. Taking a moment to get it all organized before shedding my clothes and heading outside.
I wrap my arms tightly around me, bracing against the wind that pricks at my skin, and attempting to warm it away. Determined to ignore the protruding stack of ribs that poke at my fingers, the way my hip bones jut out in front of me, telling myself it’s all over now, the cure is near, no one, not even the monster, can stop me from recovering.
Rushing toward the foamy, white spray, my teeth gnashing against its bitter, frigid bite, I dive under a series of waves, eyes shut tight against the stinging saltiness, ears filled with that loud, roaring hum. Shifting onto my back as soon as the onslaught is over and the ocean has calmed. My hair spread out all around me, my body weightless, unburdened, I bring my knees to my chest and gaze up at a sky so dark, so stark, so vast and mysterious, I can’t even fathom it. Grasping the amulet Damen placed at my neck, and calling upon the collection of crystals to aid and protect, to keep the monster at bay long enough to do what needs to be done. Placing my fate in Hecate’s hands, entrusting that, just like the yin and the yang, every dark has its light.
I submerge myself again and again, until I’m cleansed and renewed and ready to begin, wading toward the shore, my body wet, dripping, covered in goose bumps I barely take notice of. The chill now abated by the warm assurance, the complete certainty, that I’m just seconds away from slaying the beast and saving myself.
The cave walls flicker from the light of the candle, causing a succession of dark and light shadows. And after cleansing my athame, waving it three times through the flame, I kneel in the center of the magick circle I’ve made. Incense in one hand, athame in the other, re-creating a ritual similar to the one that went before, only this time I add:
I call upon Hecate, the queen of the underworld, magick, and the darkest of moons
Please unweave this spell, loosen this bind, and extinguish this dark flame that looms
Oh, great patron of witches, beloved mother, maiden, and crone
This is my mote, my will, my might
So let it be done!
Gasping in awe as a howl of wind swirls through the space and an applause of thunder cracks overhead. The force of it causing a vibration so potent it knocks the stack of chairs to the ground as the earth begins to shift and move. A rhythmic, seismic shaking and trembling, a pulse originating from somewhere down deep—growing stronger, more violent, its circumference increasing—causing layers of rock to break free from the walls and crumble around me.
Everything collapsing, disintegrating, until there’s nothing left but the ground I kneel on, a mountain of debris, and an expanse of night sky.
The earth still settling, still moving around me as I rise and give thanks. Picking my way through the smoke and ruin, as I run my hands through my thick, glossy hair and manifest a clean set of clothes so quickly and easily, I’ve no doubt my will has been done.
twenty-two
“Are we there yet?”
My fingers pick at the soft, silky blindfold Damen used to cover my eyes. A silly formality since we both know I don’t have to look to see, but still, he’s so intent on keeping the secret, he chooses to cover every single one of his bases, whether or not it’s actually necessary.
He laughs, the sound so melodic it makes my heart swell. Grasping my hand, his fingers entwined around mine, as the almost feel of his palm emits the warmest, most delicious tingle and heat—a sensation I’ll never take for granted again, especially after knowing what it’s like to lose it completely.
“Ready?” he asks, moving behind me and untying the knot at the back of my head, dropping the blindfold and taking a moment to smooth down my hair, before spinning me around and adding, “Happy Birthday!”
I smile—smile before I’ve even had a chance to open my eyes. Already convinced that whatever it is, it’s sure to be good.
And the second I see it, I gasp, my jaw dropped, hand clutching my neck, gazing upon a scene so wondrous it hardly seems possible—even for Summerland.
“When did you do this?” I ask, struggling to take it all in. Gazing upon an exquisite utopia, a seemingly endless field of blazing red tulips with an exquisite pavilion placed right in its center. “Surely you didn’t create this all now?”
He shrugs, eyes grazing over my face in a way that makes my whole body grow hot. “I’ve had this planned for a while, and while the pavilion is not entirely of my making, I did alter it a good bit, the tulips are an added touch I created for you.” He looks at me, pulling me to him when he says, “All I wanted was for you to get well so we could enjoy it together—just the two of us, you know?”
I nod, his loving, grateful gaze causing my cheeks to flush as an inexplicable shyness suddenly takes over. “Just us?” I tilt my head and take him in. “You mean we don’t have to hurry back for my surprise party?”
Damen laughs, nodding as he leads me deep into a field of the most vibrant, blazing red. “They’re still setting up—I promised we’d stop by a little later, but for now, what do you think?”
I blink, blink several times in quick succession since I don’t want to cry. Not here. Not now. Not in this magnificent field meant to represent our undying love. Swallowing hard and speaking past the lump in my throat when I say, “I think—I think you’re the most amazing person in the entire world—and I think that I’m so incredibly lucky to know you—to love you—and I think—I think I have no idea what I’d ever do without you—and I think that I’m so incredibly grateful that you didn’t give up on me.”
“I’d never give up on you,” he says, face gone suddenly serious as his eyes search mine.
“Well, you must’ve been tempted.” I turn, remembering how dark things got, how far gone I was, and bidding a silent thanks to Hecate for fulfilling my wish and giving me back everything that matters most in my world.
“Not even for a second,” he says, hand at my chin, turning me toward him again. “Not even once.”
“You were right, you know—about the magick?” I bite down on my lip and gaze at him shyly.
But he just nods, it’s not like I didn’t just admit to anything he didn’t already guess at.
“I—I did a spell—a binding spell—and, well, it sort of had the opposite effect of what I was hoping. I accidentally bound myself to Roman.” I swallow hard, seeing him continue to gaze at me with a face so expressionless, it’s impossible to read. “And—at first I didn’t tell you because—well—because I was too ashamed. It’s like—like I was obsessed with him, and—” I shake my head, grimacing when I remember the things I said and did. “Anyway, the only place I was healthy was right here in Summerland. That’s why I was begging you to come. Partly so I could feel whole again, and partly because the monster—the magick—wouldn’t let me confide on the earth plane, every time I tried it shut down the words and wouldn’t allow them to come—and all this is to say—”
He places his hand on my cheek and looks at me. “Ever,” he whispers, “it’s okay.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, feeling his arms circling around my back as he presses me to him. “So very, very sorry.”
“And so it’s over now? You’ve fixed it?” He pulls away and tilts his head, taking me in.
“
Yeah.” I nod, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “It’s all good now—I’m better—and my obsession with Roman is over. I—I just thought you should know. I hated keeping it from you.”
He leans toward me and presses his lips to my forehead, looking at me when he says, “And now, mademoiselle, would you like to begin?” Waving his arm in a wide arc and bowing down low.
I smile, my hand clasped in his as he whisks me across the field and inside that gorgeous pavilion, a building so beautiful, so exquisitely wrought, I can’t help but gasp yet again.
“What is this place?” I ask, taking in the polished white marble floors, the domed ceilings covered in the most jaw-dropping frescoes featuring luminous, pink-cheeked cherubs frolicking among other celestial beings.
He smiles, motioning me onto a creamy white couch so plush, so soft and cushy, it’s like a giant marshmallow cloud. “It’s your birthday present. And, as oddly coincidental as it may be, it’s your anniversary present as well.”
I squint, my mind running backward, pilfering through a long list of memories, and coming up empty. It’s not yet been a year since we first got together—or at least this time around anyway, so I really have no clue as to just what “anniversary” he’s referring to.
“August eighth.” He nods, seeing the confused look on my face. “August eighth, sixteen oh eight, to be exact, was the day we first met.”
“Seriously?” I gasp, it’s all I can manage, I’m so shocked by the news.
“Seriously.” He smiles, leaning back against the cloud of cushions and pulling me close. “But you don’t have to take my word for it, you know. Here, see for yourself.” He picks up a remote from the large table before us and points it toward the large circular screen that surrounds the entire far wall of the room. “In fact, you’re not limited to just seeing it, you can even experience it if you wish, it’s really up to you.”
I squint, having no idea what he’s getting at, no idea what’s happening here.
“I’ve been working on this forever and I think it’s finally ready. Think of my little invention as a sort of interactive theater. One where you can either sit back and enjoy the show or jump right in and participate—it’s your choice. But first there are a few things you must know. One, you can’t change the outcome, the script is predetermined, and two”—he leans toward me, his finger trailing over my cheek—“here in Summerland all endings are happy. Anything even the slightest bit tragic or disturbing has been carefully omitted, so no worries. You may even enjoy a surprise or two. I know I did.”
“Are they real surprises or ones manufactured by you?” I snuggle against him.
But he’s quick to shake his head. “Real. Totally and completely real. My memories, as you know, go way back, so far back that sometimes, well, they get a bit fuzzy. So I decided to do a bit of research over in the Great Halls of Learning, a sort of refresher course if you will, and as it just so happens, I was reminded of a few things I’d forgotten.”
“Such as . . . ?” I glance at him briefly, before pressing my lips to that wonderful spot where his shoulder meets his neck, instantly soothed by the almost feel of his skin and his warm musky scent.
“Such as this,” he whispers, shifting me so I’m facing the screen and not him. The two of us snuggling into each other as he squeezes a button on the remote and we watch as the screen comes to life, filling with images so large, so multidimensional, it’s as though we’re right in it.
And the moment I see that busy city square with its cobblestone streets and crowds of people all hurrying around each other much as they do today, as though they all have somewhere important to be, I know just where we are. There may be horses and carriages instead of cars, there may be overly formal attire compared to our modern, casual wear, but with the abundance of vendors loudly hawking their wares, the similarities are astonishing—I’m looking at a seventeenth-century mini-mall.
I peer at Damen, the question posed in my eyes, seeing him smile in answer as he helps me to stand. Leading me toward the screen so quickly I can’t help but stop, convinced my nose is going to smack right into it, when he leans toward me and whispers, “Believe.”
So I do.
I take that big leap of faith and keep going, right into the hard crystal screen that instantly softens and yields and welcomes us in. And not just as oddly dressed extras, but in period-appropriate attire, the two of us cast in the leading roles.
I gaze down at my hands, surprised to find them so rough and calloused though immediately recognizing them from my Parisian life, when I was Evaline, a lowly servant facing a life of mind-numbing manual labor until Damen came along.
I run them over the front of my dress, noting the itch of the fabric, the modest, severe cut resulting in a fit that’s not the least bit flattering. But still, it’s clean and well pressed, so I try to take a small bit of pride in that. And even though my blond hair is braided and twisted and scraped off my face, an unruly tendril or two still manage to find their escape.
The vendor snaps at me in French, and even though I’m aware I’m only playing a part, that this isn’t the language I speak, somehow I’m able to not just understand but also to reply. Recognizing me as one of his most discerning customers, he hands me a ripe, red tomato he claims as his best, watching as I turn it over and over in the palm of my hand, inspecting its color, its firmness of touch, nodding my consent and juggling for the change in my pouch when someone bumps against me so abruptly, the fruit slips from my grip and falls to the ground.
I gaze at my feet, heart sinking when I see the clumpy, red, splattered mess. Knowing it’ll come at great cost to me, that the kitchen staff will never agree to cover it, I spin on my heel, a word of reproach pressing forth from my lips, when I see that it’s him.
He of the dark glossy hair, deep glinting gaze, gorgeously tailored clothes, and the finest carriage to ever grace these parts aside from the queen’s. The one they call Damen—Damen Auguste. The one I seem to run into an awful lot these days.
I lift my skirts and kneel toward the ground, hoping to salvage whatever I can and not getting very far before I’m stopped by his hand on my arm, a touch that sends a swarm of tingle and heat right through to my bones.
“Pardon,” he murmurs, bowing before me and seeing that the vendor is reimbursed for the loss.
And even though I’m intrigued, even though my heart’s beating wildly, hammering hard against my chest, even though that odd sense of tingle and heat persistently lingers, I turn away, and move on. Sure that he’s just playing with me, painfully aware that he’s well out of my league. Only to have him catch up to me and say, “Evaline—stop!”
I turn, my eyes meeting his, knowing we’ll continue this cat and mouse game, if for nothing else but propriety’s sake. But also knowing that eventually, if he keeps it up, if he doesn’t grow bored or lose interest, I’ll gladly surrender, of that there’s no doubt.
He smiles, placing his hand on my arm as he thinks: This is how we started—and this is how we continued for some time. Shall we fast-forward to the good parts?
I nod, and the next thing I know, I’m standing before a great, gilded mirror, gazing at the image reflected before me. Noting how my plain ugly dress has been swapped for one of a fabric so rich, so soft and silky, it practically glides right over my body. Its low neckline the perfect showcase for my pale décolletage and generous smattering of jewels so shiny and brilliant, I hardly see anything else.
He stands behind me, catching my eye as he smiles his approval, and I can’t help but wonder how I got here, how a poor, orphaned servant like me ended up in a place so grand, with a man so gorgeous, so—magical—he’s almost too good to be true.
He offers his hand and leads me to an extravagantly dressed table for two. The sort of table I’m more used to servicing than sitting at. But now, with Damen at my side, and his servants dismissed for the night, I watch as he raises a finely cut crystal carafe so slowly, so tentatively, with a hand gone so suddenly
shaky it’s clear there’s an internal battle waging within him.
He meets my gaze, his face a conflicted maze. Frowning slightly as he places the carafe back on the table and chooses the bottle of red wine instead.
I gasp, my eyes wide, lips parted, though no words will come—the full realization of this one simple act suddenly dawning on me. You almost did it! You came so close. Why did you stop? Knowing that if he’d gone through with it, served me the elixir right from the start—everything would’ve been different.
Every. Single. Thing.
Drina never could’ve killed me—Roman never could’ve tricked me—and Damen and I would’ve lived happily ever after and after and after—pretty much the opposite of the way we live now.
His eyes search mine, gaze probing and deep, shaking his head as he thinks: I was so unsure—didn’t know how you’d accept it—if you’d accept it—didn’t think it was my place to force it on you. But that’s not why I brought you here, my only intent was to show you that your Parisian life, hard as it was, wasn’t all misery. We had our share of magical moments—moments like this—and we would’ve had more—if it weren’t for—
He leaves that part hanging. We both know where it ends. But before I can even raise my glass to his, the dinner is over, and he’s walking me home. Leading me around to the back, stopping just shy of the servants’ entrance, where he encircles his arms around my waist and pulls me close, kissing me so passionately, so deeply, I never want it to end. The feel of his lips upon mine so soft and insistent, so warm and inviting, stirring something down deep—something so familiar—something so—real—
I pull away, eyes wide, gazing into his, as my fingers explore my soft, swollen lips, the place on my cheeks left raw and tender from where his stubble has grazed them. No energy field hovering between us, no protective veil of any kind. Nothing but the glorious feel of his skin on mine.